


The Brightest of Signs

by skimmingthesurface



Series: The Ghosts in the Attic (They Never Quite Leave) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Communication Failure, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-01 00:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface
Summary: It had been a nice day. The forecast hadn’t called for rain, but as they’d dined, a light drizzle dotted the windows of the little Mediterranean bistro they’d been meaning to try. They were tucked away at a table for two in the little alcove near the front, where Aziraphale could watch as the collection of droplets grew. He cast about for some kind of comment on how lucky it was for them that it hadn’t started up on their way in.He couldn’t find a single thing to say. He picked at his papoutsakia instead. It had gone rather soggy.---In which an angel overthinks, a demon stews, and both of them refuse to say what they actually mean. Their emotions also might influence the weather a tiny bit...





	The Brightest of Signs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! It's been a minute. So I'm branching out of my comfort zone and writing my first Good Omens fic. I've read the book and watched the series (and listened to the radio drama), so I've sort of blended them together in terms of how I characterize them. I mostly draw on the series though, so for those who haven't read the book, I don't think there's much here that will stand out. This fic is part of a series of oneshots that chronicle Aziraphale and Crowley's pining and existential angsting during the past 6000 years they've known each other, plus what they do now that they're on their own side.
> 
> Also, as a note, I know a little bit of British expressions and spellings, but not enough that I felt comfortable peppering it through the narration. I'll do my best to add it in the dialogue as needed to sound authentic, but in terms of narration, I'll be using mostly American verbiage.
> 
> The title is a song lyric (since that seems to be the thing to do with AO3 fics :) ) and it comes from Vienna Teng's "Harbor." The title of the series, "The Ghosts in the Attic (They Never Quite Leave)," is also from a Vienna Teng song, "Eric's Song." I definitely recommend the latter, it's a perfect ineffable husbands song, in my opinion, though you don't have to listen to either for this fic or future fics in the series.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \---
> 
> _Fear is the brightest of signs_  
_The shape of the boundary you leave behind_  
_So sing all your questions to sleep_  
_The answers are out there in the drowning deep_  
-Vienna Teng, "Harbor"

It had been a nice day. Since Armageddon did not - as Crowley couldn't resist putting it - arma-get-_on-with-it,_ all the days had been nice. There’d been about seven of them.

The forecast hadn’t called for rain, but as they’d dined, a light drizzle dotted the windows of the little Mediterranean bistro they’d been meaning to try. They were tucked away at a table for two in the little alcove near the front, where Aziraphale could watch as the collection of droplets grew. He cast about for some kind of comment on how lucky it was for them that it hadn’t started up on their way in. 

He couldn’t find a single thing to say. He picked at his papoutsakia instead. It had gone rather soggy.

Crowley, for his part, found his empty cup of coffee far more riveting than the raindrops. They inched their way down the glass, leaving tremulous streaks in their wake as they crawled at an agonizingly slow pace, only to give in to gravity’s temptation, lose their grip, and start to fall - faster, closer, _so_ _close, that’s_ _it_ \- racing towards the windowsill... until they weren’t. Until the droplets hesitated, and thought maybe it was a good idea to cling to the window just a little longer.

Aziraphale had a lump in his throat that no amount of aubergine or stuffed grape leaves could force down, so he left the rest of his plate untouched. He dabbed at his mouth with the corner of his napkin, gaze fixated on the creases in Crowley’s forehead. They were as deep as he was in thought, three or four of them stacked across his skin like the delicate layers of baklava. If Aziraphale was brave, he’d reach across their table to stroke his thumb over his brow, smooth out the lines and edges that kept Crowley tightly wound - tightly _ coiled _ \- and drawn into himself.

Aziraphale was not brave.

He fiddled with the napkin as he lowered it back to his lap, smoothing it over his thigh instead. “Would you like some more coffee?” he asked, casting out for some kind of conversation, but Crowley didn’t look up from his cup. “Crowley?”

Dishes and glassware clinked around them. The white noise of murmured conversations in the background filled their silence while he waited for the question to register. Belatedly - and so slowly, a raindrop in reverse - Crowley lifted his head to look at him. At least, Aziraphale assumed he was looking at him through the dark lenses.

They stared at each other for a beat. “What?” Crowley finally asked foggily.

Aziraphale nodded towards his cup, lips pulling in what he hoped looked like a smile. It didn’t feel like a smile. 

“Would you like more coffee?” he repeated lightly, pointing in some vague direction. “I could call the waitress over. I’m considering ordering a slice of galaktoboureko. Or some baklava. Haven’t decided yet.” Not that he’d be able to swallow it, if the dolmades still sitting on the platter between them were anything to go by, but it appeared the stranglehold on his throat had loosened up enough for him to ramble.

Crowley returned his gaze to his cup, pointedly moving his head so Aziraphale had no doubts where he was looking. The cup was full of black, steaming coffee once again. Crowley picked it up and tilted it towards himself with a lazy sweep of his wrist that should have spilled piping hot coffee all over his lap and didn’t.

“S’fine.” He sipped at it.

Aziraphale’s face fell. More raindrops pattered against the glass, their shadows dappling Crowley’s skin with splashes of darkness. They still slid slowly.

“You didn’t finish your dolmas.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?”

Crowley gestured to the appetizer plate. “Dol_masss_,” he enunciated. “Didn’t finish.”

“Ah, yes.” There were three left. “I couldn’t possibly.” He managed another weak smile. “Not with the promise of dessert on the horizon.”

That seemed to draw Crowley out of whatever musings he’d been trapped in since they sat down. He lowered his cup as his brow furrowed further, lips parting before he had anything to say - anticipating that he would soon enough.

“You couldn’t possibly?” he echoed. “Since when has dessert stopped you from eating anything?”

“They’re quite filling,” Aziraphale argued, something fluttering within his corporation, even as the conversation nudged itself towards something more typical for the two of them. 

“They’re grape leaves. Grape leaves stuffed with- with-” Crowley’s face contorted itself as he forgot whatever it was that dolmades were stuffed with. “-_stuff_.”

“Well, there were a lot of them.”

“Please. I’ve seen you eat half a dozen crepes in one sitting.”

Aziraphale gasped and leaned back in his chair. “That was only once-!”

“Eighteen times, angel. It’s been at least eighteen times.” A slender brow arched over the rim of his sunglasses. “And that’s only the crepes. Not to mention the dozens of chef select sushi samplers or an entire hazelnut cream torte or bottomless chips from that place you like that opened in- what was it? 1964? _Or_-”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Aziraphale huffed, unable to help his glower. “Now I’m asking you to accept mine. I am _quite_ finished with my lunch and do not intend to partake in it a moment longer.”

Crowley’s mouth hung open as if he wanted to continue their little back and forth, but he said nothing and eventually hid his lips with his cup as he took another long sip. He didn’t look away from Aziraphale’s face. Straightening his shoulders, Aziraphale held his gaze for a good thirty seconds before he broke, eyes inevitably falling to his lap where he smoothed out his napkin yet again.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Crowley set his coffee down.

Aziraphale glanced up enough to see that his long fingers remained curled around the handle, knuckles white and skin pulled tight over bone. His own fingers twitched helplessly. He wanted to lift his hand from his lap and lay it on the table, outstretched between them in an attempt to bridge the gap. An attempt at an offer of peace. An attempt to show him that he was ready. 

After all they’d been through - thwarted Apocalypse and narrowly avoided extermination attempts at the hands of their respective sides - surely now, _now_ of all times, he was finally ready, right?

That was what he’d told himself that first day. At the Ritz. As the piano music swelled and the bubbles from their champagne filled his chest with an airy lightness he’d never known, Aziraphale couldn’t resist reaching for him. The pads of his fingers brushed against white linen, inches from the sharp, black angles of Crowley’s jacket - a jacket he knew the feeling of so much more intimately now after having worn it. His skin, too. He’d worn his skin and knew what it was like to be surrounded by the corporation he’d only laid eyes on for six thousand years, then suddenly in the span of a day he’d touched and been touched and felt a swooping sensation rush through him as their entities passed each other from one body into the other. He knew what Crowley felt like now, had a taste of flesh and infernal spirit, only to realize he was parched for more.

Obviously, he was nothing less than ready.

By the third glass of champagne, Aziraphale had managed to cross the divide. The side of his pinky finger skated against the supple skin of Crowley’s wrist - soft and thin - and the demon became as still as stone. He’d looked at him, shades still hiding his eyes, but the trembling curve of his lips betrayed him, left him completely exposed. Aziraphale ached for making him wait so long.

The question went unspoken, as so much of their conversations did. _ Are you sure? I _will_ take you anywhere, you just have to let me know. Are you letting me know? _

Aziraphale’s fingers curled around Crowley’s wrist and squeezed.

_ Yes. _

He thought the answer had been yes. 

In that moment, he couldn’t have felt lighter. A giddy smile tugged at his lips as he left his hand where it was and chattered incessantly, warmth flooding his entire being as Crowley’s unwavering attention remained fixated on him as the minutes bled into hours. Eventually the tension bled from the demon’s shoulders, muscles relaxing bit by bit until he could rotate the wrist Aziraphale still clasped and slid it so that their palms would meet. He didn’t grasp his hand in return, but that would be too demonstrative, wouldn’t it? Aziraphale beamed at him nonetheless and let his thumb stroke against the cushion of Crowley’s hand.

If he’d had any inkling that moment would only be that - a single moment, a collection of hours to fit in with the millenia they had stretched behind them - then Aziraphale would’ve asked Crowley to stop time once again. To freeze everything so they could stay wrapped up in one another, at their table at the Ritz, refilling their champagne until the very fabric of time fractured around them.

But that wasn’t very angelic, he supposed. And hadn’t they attempted to save the world so every little human experience could live on? It wouldn’t be fair to stop the clock and live between the seconds.

Especially not just because one angel was ashamed of what had come next.

“You’re quite finished?”

Aziraphale could feel his chin quivering as he clenched his jaw against the traitorous swell of emotion the past seven days stirred up. “Yes, I am.”

“Right then.” Crowley snapped his fingers, the check paid as he pushed away from the table.

He didn’t wait for Aziraphale.

Well, Aziraphale couldn’t exactly blame him. He’d waited long enough already, hadn’t he? 

As he stood, he adjusted his waistcoat with a few sharp tugs and straightened his shoulders. “Tickety-boo,” he murmured to himself, adequately prepared to follow him.

The drizzle turned into a deluge by the time they’d finished their lunch. The pavement was slick and rapidly growing less congested as pedestrians sought refuge from the oncoming storm. The Bentley was miraculously parked right in front. Crowley strode through the curtain of rain, not a drop daring to touch him.

Aziraphale hesitated under the awning, wringing his hands together as he watched Crowley’s back while he sauntered away. One foot inched forward, but the other remained rooted where he stood. It wasn't until the driver's side door was open that Crowley turned to look his way. He stared at him expectantly - despite the sunglasses, there were some looks Aziraphale just _knew_ \- but didn't say anything for a good minute.

_ C'mon, angel. Get in the car. _

He didn't ask. Or demand or threaten or whinge. _Angel, I swear on all that is unholy-_

“I think I'll walk back.”

A few drops of water plipped onto Crowley's sunglasses. “What?”

“To the bookshop,” Aziraphale clarified, as if it was necessary. As if _that_ was what Crowley was uncertain about. “It's not far, really…”

“It's raining.”

“Never did mind a little bit of water.”

“A little bit of- Aziraphale, I could literally go white water rafting in the street.” Crowley gestured expansively at said street to illustrate his point.

It was hardly as bad as all that, but Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to crash and burn a second time in one afternoon, so swallowed down the sentiment and twisted the skin around his own fingers until it hurt. “I really would rather walk.”

Crowley started and stopped whatever it was he wanted to say so quickly, it was like he was tripping over his own tongue. “Don't be an idiot,” he managed to ground out between his teeth. “Just let me-” _Let me do this for you_.

Aziraphale felt his chin tremble again, puddles pooling in the cracked pavement as gutters gushed and overflowed. “No, Crowley.” _You've already done so much_.

An electric crack split the sky in two, thunder chasing the fading blaze of lightning with an ominous rumble. Something deep and dark. Something hellish.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Crowley shrugged with one shoulder, not nearly casual enough to keep the metal mesh around his neck from swinging wildly.

He slid into the car and slammed the door shut. Aziraphale winced as it echoed just as loudly as the thunder. He half-expected the car to peel away and spray water at any and all pedestrians who has the misfortune of being in the demon's way. It didn't.

The Bentley remained idle. Aziraphale could see Crowley through the foggy window, he was checking his mirrors. Fiddling with the radio. Testing the windshield wipers.

Aziraphale shuddered, head bowed as he took a step forward, out from beneath the shelter of the awning and into the rain. The drops had become needle-like in their freefall from the heavens, stinging his skin the second he allowed them to. Icy and cold.

Fitting.

His shoes became water-logged as he started to walk, unable to look at the Bentley as he passed it by. With trembling fingers, he clutched the collar of his coat to hold it together as it billowed in the gust of wind that swept through Soho. Behind him, he heard the Bentley roar to life as another jagged gash of lighting tore across the sky, tires hardly squealing as they spun through the wet. Aziraphale froze and, before he could stop himself, turned just in time to see bright red tail lights burning through the mist. Miraculously, Crowley had managed to spin the car around on the narrow, one-way street, speeding away from him.

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Aziraphale puffed out his chest, lifted his chin, and let the rainwater soak him through, right down to the bones of his corporation and beyond. It had been true then. Still true now. He could never hope to match Crowley for speed, he’d made that quite apparent.

The champagne tea they’d indulged in at the Ritz that day had been _wonderful_ \- divine, if he were to be so bold as to admit. They’d walked there, so they walked home from it as well. To Crowley’s flat, for once.

Maybe that had been the problem. It was too different.

They didn’t walk hand-in-hand or anything of the sort. Just side by side as they continued their pleasantly tipsy conversation that they’d been having over egg and cress on brioche, cheese and chutney sandwiches, raspberry mousse, and a selection of sponge cakes that melted on his tongue. The walk hadn’t been the problem.

Aziraphale had been happy to walk to Crowley’s. He’d wanted the demon to see his beloved Bentley, to thoroughly inspect it and love on it in a way he’d vehemently deny later. He’d had to watch it go up in flames in an explosion of metal, leather, and infernal rage. Pushed beyond its limitations, demonically enhanced or otherwise. Aziraphale may have lost his bookshop to fire, but he never saw the damage. Never had to watch the flames scale the walls and tear down the ceiling to bury his beloved books in ash. He’d been spared that horror, somehow.

Crowley hadn’t. So of course they’d go to Crowley’s first. And not going together seemed absolutely out of the question.

As Crowley orbited his car with unmitigated glee, Aziraphale’s gaze surveyed the building that housed his flat. He’d only been in it the once, after nearly three hundred years of the two of them dwelling exclusively in London. Granted Crowley had lived in several flats over that time span, but it was in this one, in Mayfair, that he’d stayed the longest. With its harsh, minimalist decor and budding garden amidst the gray. Just that morning he’d strolled out of the flat as if he owned it, mentally preparing to be dragged to the bowels of Hell.

It had only been that morning.

It had only been a _day_.

Aziraphale committed to their side merely hours before the end of the world as they knew it was meant to happen. In that moment, it hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since. Though, typically hours meant very little to ethereal and occult beings who’d lived beyond time itself.

But these were not typical events. The intimate exchange they’d shared at the Ritz was not a typical exchange for them. Going back to Crowley’s after was not typical.

When a cautious hand landed on his shoulder, he realized Crowley had been speaking to him. “Angel?”

_Worry. Caution. Affection. Annoyance. Not at him, at something else. A hint of fury, buried deep deep deep down. Concern. Warmth. Fondness, always fondness. More worry. Fear._

So much fear.

“So sorry, my dear fellow. Must’ve drifted off there for a tick. What, ah- what was it you were saying?”

He invited him up for drinks. “We cleared out my good wine last night, but I’ve got several nice bottles of scotch that I think you’d find to your liking.”

He probably would have. He’d wanted to say, ‘that sounds _ lovely _ .’ He’d wanted to sidle close, see if he could render Crowley flustered and incoherent from a smile and a light touch to his arm. He’d _wanted_. He’d been _ready_.

Aziraphale remembered opening his mouth to accept the offer, but instead of causing Crowley to sputter and stumble his way through a response, he found that it was _he_ who had a lack of words. Dried right up, right from the back of his throat. He could see his face reflected in dark lenses, eyes wide and the lines etched into his skin more pronounced than ever.

_So much fear._

He didn’t have to say anything. Crowley could see it. He took a step back, wrenching his hand from his shoulder like it burned him - but like he _wanted_ it to keep burning, like he would’ve let it burn for an eternity if Aziraphale would only _let him_. But he gave him space. 

It still wasn’t enough.

“Of course. Stupid of me. You want to check on the bookshop. ‘Course.” Crowley recovered quickly. Too quick. Too fast. _He couldn’t keep up._ “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

Driving was fine. Driving was something they did. It might have been fast, but Aziraphale knew how Crowley played this game. He knew the rules and what he was meant to say.

He didn’t say a word until the Bentley pulled up alongside the bookshop. Picture perfect. The same dark red panels still framed the little pocket of Soho he called his own. Windows still only slightly smudged. The closed sign dangled in the front door window and the shades were drawn. Everything just the way he’d left it.

It was the same as it had always been. It could still be the same. He wanted it to be the same.

“Crowley-” he choked on his friend’s name, tearing his gaze away from the facade of his shop to find the demon’s eyes well-concealed behind his glasses.

“Yes?” he prompted, nearly a whisper.

Aziraphale’s chin had trembled then, too. “I… I’m so sorry,” he started, but wasn’t sure how to finish. Crowley said nothing, so he didn’t have much of a choice. “I can’t… I _thought_ I was ready, but I-”

He silenced himself as Crowley stiffened, his gaze directed somewhere out the windshield as his grip tightened on the wheel. Panic crested in Aziraphale’s chest as he watched the walls around him rise. Brick by brick.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat to face him better. “Crowley.”

“Mm.”

“Crowley, _look_ at me.”

He did, and a cold pit opened up in Aziraphale’s stomach. _Caution. Fear. Regret. Guilt. Despair._ He didn’t have to feel them the way he felt love to know that they were there. The fact that Crowley could feel all of that and still acquiesce made something inside him shiver.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he clarified, hoping to ease some of the pain he was attempting to brick up. “I do. But I… I need more time.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “S’fine. Whatever you need.”

“Crowley-”

“You should go through the shop. Make sure it’s all accounted for and everything. Shouldn’t take my word for it.”

He was asking him to leave. Aziraphale had left enough polite hints during their time together to recognize when the same was being asked of him. Nodding, he opened the passenger door and made to stand, then hesitated.

“Can I call on you later? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“You can do whatever you like, angel.”

“Right. Erm… what do you say to breakfast, then? Breakfast and then, ah- a walk in the park? We could feed the ducks.”

“Wherever you want to go.”

Aziraphale knew what being punched in the gut felt like. He knew what being hit over the head with a crowbar felt like. Hell, now he even knew what being discorporated felt like. 

This felt so much worse.

“I’ll telephone you, then. Tomorrow.”

Then he got out of the car and watched the Bentley drive away from the steps of his shop. He went inside and made sure everything was accounted for, even if he didn’t have to. Despite what Crowley had said, Crowley _knew_ his shop. He just did it for something to do. Something to keep his fingers from reaching for his phone. Eventually he settled in for the rest of the afternoon. He made himself a cup of cocoa and sat in his back room to ruminate for twelve hours.

As promised, he did call on Crowley for breakfast the next morning. And he called on him the day after that to see a show in the West End he’d heard promising things about. And every day for the next seven days.

Crowley indulged him every single time.

The rain weighed down his coat, the beige fabric now darkened by the downpour, but the heaviness was almost comforting. When the Bentley was out of sight, Aziraphale resumed his slow tread home. He could have miracled himself dry, encouraged the drops to fall around him, but he let his hair and his clothes absorb it. What couldn’t be absorbed slid off his skin. Like off a duck. _That’s what water slides off_.

When he arrived at the crossroads that would lead him back to the bookshop, Aziraphale hesitated. His soft curls were now tangled and matted as they lay flattened against his scalp. His socks made squishing sounds in his shoes and his slacks were plastered to his legs. Every inch of him was sopping with rainwater and the storm didn’t show any signs of letting up. It really was in his best interest to seek refuge in his bookshop and dry off.

But then what? He’d go home to his shop, warm up and then what? Make a cup of cocoa, settle down with a good book he’d been meaning to reread? _And then what?_ What came next?

There was no destination anymore. No side to report to. No purpose on Earth. _How did the humans do it?_

Of course, there had always been times where Aziraphale would indulge in his whims for the sheer enjoyment of it, but it was always tempered by knowing that Heaven could check in at any moment. The Arrangement had provided him the perfect opportunity to do both. Enjoy the sights of their surreptitious meeting locations and spend time with one another, all the while ensuring the blessings were handed out and the temptations hit their mark. It had all been rather lovely.

Until it wasn’t. Until the danger they’d been putting themselves in - the danger _he_ put _Crowley_ in - became so painfully real.

It just hadn’t been worth it then.

Now there was no danger. For now. No sides to hide from for now. No regulations and restrictions to adhere to. No idea what to do about Crowley.

Standing at his - quite literal and metaphorical - crossroads, he waited for the light to turn green through a dozen cycles. The bright lights burned and blurred through the misty curtain of rainwater. Red bled into puddles pooling in the street, while the white was blinding. Like Heaven's light. Sharp and poignant, glaring at him from across the way. _WAIT_. _Principality Aziraphale, WAIT_. Even when the green cooled the slick pavement, it offered him no relief. All the lights were fractured and distorted and too, too bright. It didn't comfort against the gray, like the verdant leaves of Crowley's plants, soft and flourishing. No, this green cut through the gray like a knife, carving a path through it to beckon him forward. _COME. Principality, COME._

He stayed. People paid him no mind as they passed him by, all bundled under coats and umbrellas if they happened to have them, otherwise shielding themselves with handbags and cardigans held over their heads. But Aziraphale stayed still. He stood still as rain dripped from his hair, slid down the slope of his nose, and fell from the edges of his sleeves. 

But it no longer fell _on_ him.

Aziraphale blinked, his distant gaze focusing on the rippling puddles in the street and the people still seeking shelter around him. He looked up. A black umbrella sheltered him from the downpour.

Once again feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut, Aziraphale turned to his left. Crowley watched the pedestrian traffic light command them to WAIT, one arm stretched out towards him and holding the umbrella aloft. Directly over Aziraphale, leaving himself exposed. Wide eyes roved over his lithe, serpentine figure, still miraculously dry.

He could miracle Aziraphale dry, too, if he wanted. Instead he was holding an umbrella. Waiting with him at a crosswalk he couldn’t cross.

If he had any need for breath, it would’ve been stolen from him as he stared at his silent companion. London bustled around them, humanity in constant motion, while they stood there on the corner, through three more cycles of traffic lights. Time stopped, and not. The two of them frozen while everyone else continued on.

The raindrops softened. Aziraphale’s sleeve was water-logged and heavy, but when he lifted it, it felt just as light as the champagne from the Ritz. The ripples in the puddles lessened, and the soft, white glow of the WAIT sign’s reflection didn’t look nearly as distorted as it once had. Even as the drizzle lessened, the umbrella remained.

Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed the back of Crowley’s hand. A light tremor traveled up the demon’s arm from the point of contact, up to his shoulders and his neck like an electric current. Like lightning. 

Crowley otherwise stood still as Aziraphale linked their arms, not even flinching as the wet fabric of one jacket seeped into another. He didn’t complain as the rain from Aziraphale’s clothes dampened his own by proximity, and even allowed him to tug him closer, so they both stood under the umbrella.

_Anywhere you want to go..._

Well, it was a start.

The light turned green again. Arm in arm, they both took a step off the curb.


End file.
